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Ozzy, 2002-2016

Hiking with Ozzy at Stroud's Run in Athens, OH. This is one of the last long hikes we went on ...
Hiking with Ozzy at Stroud’s Run in Athens, OH. This is one of the last long hikes we went on …

He was a good dog.

No, really. A great dog. The last time I sat with tears soaking my keyboard like this, I was writing about the demise of Gilligan, the black-and-tan coonhound from hell.

But Ozzy was different. When he was bounding toward the woods, high on whatever scent had seized his canine brain, he would actually pause when I barked his name. After a moment of indecision, he’d lope back, tail wagging broadly, lazily, as he sidled up to me to see what adventure was next and why I had demanded his presence.

Not Gilly. When Gilly caught the scent of freedom, he was gone like a crack addict after a single hit. No looking back. That proved his demise in the end. And maybe it’s why Ozzy lived to the ripe old age of 14 before Lara and I made that most difficult of decisions and said goodbye to him at a vet clinic in brooding, overcast Athens, Ohio, on Nov. 19, 2016. The cancer had withered him away, leaving bones and fur where his hips had once been.

Ozzy and Gilly hanging out on our porch at the lake house in Knoxville.
Ozzy and Gilly hanging out on our porch at the lake house in Knoxville.

Ozzy was the sole survivor of my dog dynasty. After Gilly and Xena died in Knoxville, he and Mully joined us for the adventure to D.C., where Mully finally succumbed to his 18+ years of annoying everyone around him, particularly our umbrella cockatoo, Sydney.

I found Ozzy on a freezing New Year’s Eve in Knoxville, TN. Some piece of shit had dumped him in the parking lot of Melton Hill Park, and as I walked back to my truck with faithful Xena plodding along beside me, I thought Ozzy was a fox pacing the parking lot, until I saw him bound up to each car that pulled in, his tail wagging, hoping his human had returned.

Ozzy and Xena wrestle at our Hardin Valley House on the night that I found him at Melton Hill Park in Knoxville.
Ozzy and Xena wrestle at our Hardin Valley House on the night that I found him at Melton Hill Park in Knoxville.

When Xena and I reached him, the two of them hit it off immediately, playing and frolicking as I tried to load Xena into the back of my truck. I knew that I was already at my dog quota … Xena, Kesey, Crystal. It seemed unlikely I’d be able to convince Lara to up it to four.

Until she met Ozzy. Like me and Xena, she was smitten instantly. She even came up with his name, a tribute to The Osbournes reality show that was all the rage on MTV at the time.

Some of my fondest memories of Ozzy are from Melton Hill Lake, roaming those rolling, grassy hills in a pack, he and Gilligan the advance guard, Xena and I lumbering along behind. When I’d stop at one of the boat ramps to toss a stick out into the fog-shrouded water, Ozzy would drift off, searching for rabbits, possums, whatever. He’d leave the lake to the water dogs, keeping his paws planted firmly on dry land. Occasionally, out of the corner of my eye, I’d see Ozzy hitting the afterburners in pursuit of a rabbit.

Ozzy slices through the fields at Melton Hill Lake, in search of something to chase.
Ozzy slices through the fields at Melton Hill Lake, in search of something to chase.

As I scrolled through endless rows of my digital photo collection, embedded in Apple’s granite Photo app like coruscated memories, I started plucking out random images of Osbourne. More often that not, he is looking directly at me and my camera, always eager to win my attention and earn my praise, waiting for instructions on what to do next. He was one of the best-behaved, well-mannered dogs I’ve ever encountered. A true gentleman.

Ozzy and Lara at Frozen Head State Park in Tennessee.
Ozzy and Lara at Frozen Head State Park in Tennessee.

I’ll take his ashes back to Melton Hill this summer. Maybe sooner. And I’ll probably save some to spread at Rock Creek Park in D.C. next time I’m in town. After Gilly and Xena died, Lara, Mully, Sydney, Ozzy and I moved to D.C., where we lived for four fabulous years. Ozzy and I took epic hikes in Rock Creek Park on weekends, and we even strolled down to the National Mall one sunny afternoon, where he was more obsessed with the squirrels than monuments to America.

Ozzy wasn’t a natural alpha dog. It wasn’t until the pack had dwindled and disappeared that it was his turn. But he wore it well. He was my best bud and constant companion while we were in D.C. and after we moved to Athens. He was a damned good dog. One of the best. I’ll never forget him.

An exhausted Ozzy sleeps on the morning after Gilly's death. The two of them ran all night, with GIlly getting hit by a car and Ozzy returning home alone with bloody feet.
An exhausted Ozzy sleeps on the morning after Gilly’s death. The two of them ran all night, with Gilly getting hit by a car and Ozzy returning home alone with bloody feet.
Ozzy on our front porch in Athens. This was taken just a week or so before he died.
Ozzy on our front porch in Athens. This was taken just a week or so before he died.
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Godspeed, Mr. Gilligan

gilligan2.jpg

He was a good dog.

Well, no. Not really.

Half the time he was a good dog. A SuperDog. Worthy of Polly Purebred.

But the other half, he was a whiney, headstrong itch that constantly demanded scratching.

And I loved him. I’m proud that my last day with Gilligan was at Frozen Head State Park, switch-backing up to the lookout tower, driven by his and Ozzy‘s panting pace. He pissed me off a few times. He amazed me a few more. And when we met a group of backpackers who were about to ascend the mountain to spend the night, he managed to slip his collar and insert himself next to their husky in a photo I was trying to snap for them.

That was Gilligan. Half the time I loved him; half the time I wanted to slap him upside the head. Sometimes, regrettably, I did.

I never realized how hard I would take his death.

He started whining when we hit Oak Ridge on the way back from Frozen Head. I figured he needed to pee. I consoled him. Only a few more minutes. He put his black-and-tan muzzle on my right shoulder, looking me in the eye through the rearview mirror from the back seat of my truck. When we pulled into the driveway, I let him and Ozzy out. They’d been bolting at every opportunity, but I didn’t think they would now.

Not after a 3 1/2 hour, 7 mile hike up Frozen Head.

Not when I was dangling dinner in their earholes.

But they leaped out of the truck, pissed on the nearest shrubbery and bolted up the driveway to freedom. Lara, who was taking Xena on her after-dinner walk up on the street, shouted as the hounds flew past. They kept going, fueled by the thrill of rubbing their freedom in the face of every fenced dog they passed. I was pissed. Really pissed. But there wasn’t much to be done. I showered. Lara and I went off to meet friends for dinner, confident that the hounds would be home when we returned.

They weren’t. Lara went to bed around 1 a.m. When she awoke at 4, Ozzy was in the garage, grateful to be let in the house. Gilligan was nowhere to be seen.

He still wasn’t here when I awoke around 8. I put a note on Facebook. On my blog. On the animal shelter’s site. Ozzy and I walked the road looking for Gilligan. Lara called the emergency vet clinic. There was no sign of him. We decided to grab lunch and run errands. And that’s when Lara spotted him. Lying on the side of the road. Already stiff. I think he died instantly, but that wasn’t much consolation. I spent the rest of the afternoon bathed in vodka and tears, wishing that asshole were whining at my feet, begging to go down to the dock for a swim in the frigid cove.

So  now I’m sitting here smoking a cigar, listening to Hayes Carll, thinking about all the dock diving our black-and-tan dumpster diver got to do before he met his maker.

Godpeed, Mr. Gilligan. You were a good dog …

Photos of the Frozen Head Hike

Photos of Gilligan

Gilligan joins the pack

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Gilligan’s missing

Missing hound dog on the lam ...
Gilligan

If you’re in or near West Knoxville, please keep an eye out for Gilligan, our black and tan coonhound cross. He and Ozzy ran off yesterday at about 5 p.m. Ozzy returned sometime between 1 a.m. and 4 a.m. today (1/16/10). Still no sign of Gilligan.

I’ve already filed a report with the animal shelter (which has a pretty cool feature allowing you to post descriptions/photos of missing pets).

If you see him, please email me or call 865.288.0496.